Darkest Skies
by alasweneverdo
Summary: The first time around, it was Angelus who forgot. Now they were just repeating old mistakes.


Title taken from "Darkshines" by Muse.

* * *

If his senses didn't scream the contrary, he'd think she were human. The curving smile on her lips looked genuine in its innocence, her posture relaxed enough to be friendly but not improper. She smelled more of flowers than of blood. He sought her pulse, found none, and was entranced.

The girl looked up to meet his eyes with an expression of perfect amiability. Hers were the color of the sea, with tempests raging in the distance and sailors hoping for quick deaths. It was impressive how easily she maintained the charade of girlish naivety in spite of this. Impressive, and a bit alluring.

Angelus was not prone to chasing dead women, though this creature could hardly be called more than a mere girl. He liked his conquests fresh, unsullied by grave dirt or the horrors of the sunless world. Drusilla had become uninteresting after he turned her; Darla was static and unable to satiate; and all the other women were corpses now, good for just a fuck and a feed before they were discarded. They were never worth keeping around.

Yet something about this one was fascinating.

When her smile turned wider, he took that as incentive, crossing the room at as casual a pace as he was able. "Didn't expect to see one of our kind here," he said, skipping the niceties.

"You're here to drink." She spoke in the posh tones of a well-bred Englishwoman, and to an outsider her statement would come off as a snobbish girl deploring the habits of men. "I am here to socialize."

"They're not mutually exclusive," he argued. "Why else would I be talking to you?"

Without losing her friendly grin, she said, "You're hoping I'll join you for dinner and a quick brush outside. I think we're both better off if you don't pretend to have pure intentions."

She wasn't cross with him, though if she were she hid it well. And there was almost something playful about her blunt dismissal. It was lucky no one else seemed to be listening, or they'd be appalled by her crudeness. He cocked his head and regarded her with increased interest. "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," she replied shortly. No surname. "I'll thank you to refrain from calling me by any diminutive. I've quite outgrown them. And who are you?"

She had to have heard of him. He couldn't quite hide the smugness in his voice when he said, "I'm called Angelus in most circles. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Buffy_."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you, _Angel_," she was quick to retort.

Though his impulse should have been to scowl, he laughed. She joined in, covering her mouth daintily as she giggled. "Fitting name for the Scourge of Europe, I think," she said. Ah, so she _had_ heard of him. Despite her teasing his pride was appeased.

"And what will they know you as?" he asked, leaning closer.

She leaned in as well and the boundaries of propriety began to collapse around them. He could smell the perfume on her neck, an earthy must that was less like flowers and more like rain. Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke in a breathy whisper, "Your demise."

He took it for what it was: a threat and an invitation.

Dru walked in on them days later, her new toy in tow. His name was William, though he preferred "Spike," and he was nothing short of pathetic, so Drusilla loved him as she loved all her frivolous things. She made a tutting sound and dropped his hand. "Grandmother will have a fit. Come along, Spike, we're going into the garden to watch the birds."

William, still unused to the ways of the immortal in spite of all his posturing, gaped at the scene in front of him, then at Dru. "But it's the middle of the bleeding _day!_" he protested. He knew enough to know how menacing sunlight was, particularly when Angelus had tried to force him into it just a week previous.

Drusilla held a finger to her lips as a crazed grin rose to her face. "We'll be very quiet," she hissed. "They won't even know we're there. Silent as daisies under the windowsill." The two other vampires watched as she dragged him out, humming a slow and eerie tune as she went.

Elizabeth stared at the closed door in amused bewilderment for a long moment. "Aren't you going to make sure they don't turn into well-dressed torches?"

"I have other things on my mind just now," he growled, hoping she would take the hint. He didn't care for Spike anyway; the fool nearly got them driven out of London, and he wasn't done with this city just yet.

She chortled, shifting her weight from her hands to her forearms to brace herself against the mattress. "Yes, yes. Beating heart or no, males only care about one thing. Talking of, go deeper this time, would you? That's an order, mind, not a request," she added in a drawl.

He complied, and once their respective climaxes had been reached they both slumped onto the sheets, boneless. That was the—oh, he'd lost track of how many times, but they by now they had fornicated themselves into a stupor. Even vampire stamina had its limits. Too spent to do much else, he watched her, smirking as his eyes roved over her form.

Her fair hair was tossed over one shoulder, messy in a gorgeous sort of way. One hand was tangled in it as it held up her head just inches from the mattress. The whole front of her lithe torso was pressed into the sheets, and a content smile lit up her face, like she could think of nothing better than the feel of fine linens against her breasts. A leg dangled off the bed. She looked so much like a living girl, but without the heaving chest or flush in her cheeks. And even after all the unspeakable things they had just finished doing, she glowed with impossible purity, a flower budding in the ashes.

Then she turned her head, shooting him a sultry look, and he didn't think he had ever wanted anyone this badly before. Especially not anyone _willing_. For the first time in decades, Angelus was afraid.

"Oh, and who's this?" Darla asked, audible distaste dripping from her words. The fake smile she donned was halfhearted and full of poorly-concealed venom. It was likely she smelled sex all over them.

"You must be Darla," said Elizabeth. Her grin was truer, but he didn't trust it; no one could have that pleasant a disposition when faced with Darla. He knew from experience. "I'm Elizabeth. I've already had the pleasure of meeting the other members of your little family, but somehow you and I just keep missing one another. Queer, isn't it?" She addressed their mutual lover now, saying, "Have you been hiding her from me, Angel?"

Angelus saw his sire's eye twitch. "Angel? You must be confused, child. His name is Angelus."

If being called a child bothered Elizabeth, she didn't show it. Her eyebrows rose and a disbelieving noise escaped her. "If we're being technical, I believe it's Liam—and I'd wager that moniker of yours wasn't what the men called you when they tossed you a coin to lift your skirts. With you gone these past few days, I'd half wondered if you had fallen into old habits. Far be it from me to stop you if you are; goodness knows you have to stay in practice somehow when your old lover tires of you."

Darla, her expression more livid than he had ever seen it, gave him a look that said she expected him to jump to her defense. Theirs was the bond between sire and sired, her blood in his veins giving him a second life. They had been through hell and back together, almost in a literal sense. But… in fairness, Elizabeth was the best lay he'd ever had, and he liked having her around well enough aside from that. He glanced between the two blondes, one full of indignant fury and the other dangerously entertained, and shrugged.

"If the two of you want to fight it out, go right ahead," he told them, "but I'm feeling peckish and Penn mentioned a small convent not far from here."

"Oh, a nun or two would be _lovely_," Elizabeth said in excitement, looping her arm through his. She looked at the older woman with a cordial smile. "You're welcome to come along, of course."

Glaring daggers at the both of them, Darla stomped off in a huff, likely plotting murder of only the most gruesome sort. Angelus sighed as they left in the opposite direction. "She'll be impossible to live with now," he lamented. "She leaves me to die in a burning barn and all's well, but now I've gone and _offended_ her. Women are strange creatures, the lot of you."

"I don't think I'm quite so complicated," said Elizabeth, resting her other hand on his upper arm and leaning her head against his shoulder. He covered her hand with his on impulse. "Like most women, Darla is a liar. Myself, I prefer secrets to lies. Dishonesty is cheap and coarse. It's more of an art to hide the truth than to disfigure it."

"Then why is it I always think you're lying to me?" he asked, more to himself than to her.

Even with the layers of clothing serving as barriers, he could feel the slow caress of her fingers through his sleeve. Her long nails dug into the fabric. "You're in denial, I suppose." When he made a questioning sound in his throat, she went on, "I told you when we met that I would be your demise, yet here we are, thick as thieves, and to you those are contradictory ideas—looking at the company you keep, however, I can't see why; not the most trustworthy bunch, and family or not you'd kill each other without hesitation to spare yourselves. Ergo, either I was being facetious before or I'm manipulating you now. What you fail to accept is that they are not, as you say, _mutually exclusive_. You will come to realize it eventually, I imagine."

Now he chuckled. "I take it that you plan on killing me in my sleep, then."

"Oh, Angel, don't be simple." She sighed. "I never said I was going to _kill_ you."

He faltered.

Elizabeth's grace and charm were offset by a sort of inherent ineloquence that her parents' wealth had been unable to scrub out. On more than one occasion she would try to think up a witty retort but fail in the attempt, instead producing something nonsensical but nonetheless humorous. Then she would pout and Angelus would pretend to find her tiresome, but when no one was looking he'd kiss the top of her head and she would look up at him, beaming.

She liked to hunt on her own. Her demonic face was such a rare sight to him that it was disorienting to catch a glimpse of it. And while it had never been off-putting to see a woman's vampiric features, he found he preferred her smooth skin and blunt teeth. The mischievous softness of her human eyes was what he found enrapturing, not that malevolent, piercing gold.

Sometimes it felt like he had a heartbeat again and he had no idea what that could mean. When she was gone, however briefly, he was overcome with nauseating anxiety. It was bizarre and confusing.

He suspected there was a word for it, but he refused to acknowledge the possibility.

France suited her. The country was in a state of misery and economic depression, which meant its people were on edge and prone to hoarding when they could. She relished in the challenge, finding more and more inventive ways to enter and raid homes. They made a game of it: She was invited in, acted charming and helpless, and looted as much as she could without being caught. If they found her out, she killed them and feasted on their blood; if not, she went on her merry way to find another family to deceive, treasure in hand and tucked into her clothes. Her record was six houses in a row, but it was likely she could have gone on longer if not for boredom. Angelus indulged her, and in return she would bring him a child or two. It was a sweeter exchange than roses, at any rate.

They took up residence in one such ill-fated home, the six of them. It had belonged to a wealthy family whose blood had, according to Elizabeth, been rich with wine. The house had a good many rooms, of which Darla holed herself up peevishly in one, Drusilla and Spike took another, Penn kept the attic and Elizabeth stayed with Angelus in the master bedroom.

Angelus knew Darla was going to continue ignoring him until Elizabeth left, but he didn't foresee that happening in a hurry. And anyway, the rest of the group didn't mind her; Spike, for one, regarded her fondly, as one would a dear sister, and she liked him well enough in return, saying he was an endearing and altogether harmless fool with a talent for truly horrific verse ("What kind of moron can't find a rhyme for 'gleaming'?"). Drusilla didn't hate her, but then, she didn't seem to dislike much of anyone, and in fact didn't _like_ many people either. Then there was Penn, who gazed at Elizabeth through lustful eyes—until Angelus threatened to pluck them out of their sockets, which Dru then gleefully offered to do herself. "I do love putting out the lights," she said dreamily, waggling her fingers. "One by one, twinkling like little stars till Mummy makes the sun rise."

It was, admittedly, unusual to have Elizabeth in their clan. She wasn't related to any of them—that is to say, none of them had a sire in common with her. Spike was sired by Drusilla; Dru and Penn were sired by Angelus; Angelus was sired by Darla. They were all family, Elizabeth an outsider. But she said she didn't mind, and in all honesty, neither did he.

"I don't care for family anyway," she said. "I killed my parents. I would've done away with my brother as well, but he and his wife set off for America a year before I was turned. I'm sure they'll have a dozen sons and not a single daughter. I was the only girl born to my family in several generations, you know."

"Were they disappointed, then, when you broke the chain?" he asked.

She frowned. "They were always disappointed. Not because of that, but everything else." She never spared another word on the subject, and for weeks he tried to fathom what she could have done that was so shameful.

Days occurred, offering both the wonderful and the tedious. This one found them in good spirits; morning was soon to come and they were lounging in an ornate chair after a hunt, him sprawled out with her on his lap, and she appeared so at ease it was a surprise she didn't start purring. Instead she hummed contentedly, eyes closed, eventually saying, "You should be flattered, you know."

Though neither of them showed signs of initiating sex, he had pulled up her skirts and was absently stroking her inner thigh while she pressed her cheek to the exposed skin of his chest. He decided to humor her: "Why's that, then, Buffy?"

"I suppose you may have figured it out, but I was a virgin before I met you," she said. A fit of laughter erupted from him and made them both shake. She frowned up at him. "What?"

"It's a good thing you don't lie often," he said. "You're terrible."

"I'm being entirely serious," she insisted, straightening up and looking wounded. "You were my first, Angel. My _only_." Her expression darkened. "And here I thought you took pleasure in the act of deflowering."

His laughter died in his throat. He was sure she was having him on, but her bitterness and hurt said otherwise. If she was telling the truth, he wasn't sure what to think; she hadn't _acted_ like a virgin, nor performed like one. And he wasn't used to women giving themselves to him volitionally or exclusively. Darla was a whore, and Dru—she had been chaste and resistant to the last. But here was Elizabeth—Buffy, saying she had given her body to him and _only_ him, and it was either troubling or laughable. He just wished he could identify the strange sensation it caused in his chest, his abdomen, the whole of his torso. It was prickly and warm—like a hedgehog, his brain filled in, but there was no reason for him to be thinking of hedgehogs just now.

Still skeptical, he asked, "Why me, of all people? Well—not _people_, but you understand my meaning."

She settled back into his body, the aroma of that wondrous perfume rising off her pale skin. "There was a hatred in you, an anger that no amount of blood or violence could hope to quell. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone with that much resentment before."

"That was before you met Darla," he said, half-joking.

She shook her head. "Darla is a being of blind evil. When I saw you, I just sensed… rage. Passionate loathing. But then you looked at me."

When she remained quiet, he prompted, "And?"

"Something changed," she said. "Your eyes said we had already known each other a long time, and you loved me."

It was a stupid and grotesquely sentimental statement. From anyone else—or to any other vampire—it would have provoked intense resentment and distaste. He had plenty of reason to kick her out for making such an accusation.

Except it wasn't an accusation: It was the truth. When he saw her across that room, she captivated him in a way that surpassed obsession. She was young and beautiful and even now had an air of virtue hanging about her. Her smile was bright, her mannerisms confident. No vampire was truly carefree, but he thought Buffy came close, taking joy in her undead life. And while he detested all others who were so happy, he loved her with every particle of his festering heart as it lay unmoving in his chest.

There were no words he could think to say that weren't wholly untrue. Seeming to sense this, she spun around to straddle his waist. Her fingers dexterously undid his trousers before she took his cock in hand, a grin on her face.

The dress was cumbersome and he lacked the patience to help her out of it, but she told him with a glare that she _liked_ this dress and was not going to have it end up in tatters on the floor. He was cross at the added delay but stopped pouting over it when he entered her. The two of them built up a rhythm at once, a slower pace than usual, and between sighs and moans she met his eye and whispered, "Bite me."

Blood wasn't as sweet the second time around, but who was he to deny her request? He and Darla had sunk their fangs into one another many a time in the throes of passion. Averse as Buffy was to showing her own fanged face, the sight of his seemed to gladden her. Now, when his teeth pierced her flesh, she let out a breathless cry and grabbed handfuls of his hair. Their lovemaking—for it was just that—went on for a while longer, her cries getting louder as blood spilt from her neck. Doubtless, the others overheard and were quietly exasperated. Once they were done she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"I didn't finish answering your question," she said, muffled. "About why I chose you." When she spoke her lips moved against his skin. "I sensed the connection between us as well, and being in your presence was the closest I had felt to having a soul. I—I suppose I missed that feeling, but it burned. I wanted you to burn, too, and to be in agony for eternity for loving me."

Her tone was almost guilty. If he were less of a monster he would tell her she had nothing to apologize for, but he _was _a monster, one who was loath to deceive this sprightly girl, so he stopped short, instead wrapping his arms around her naked body as she rested.

Well, he thought, so much for her promises that she wouldn't kill him.

Two years of bliss ended in a dank abandoned house somewhere outside of Westminster. The girl's hair was pinned up like a doll, yet her eyes were wide and afraid and a waterfall of tears had already fallen on her cheeks. A stake hovered right over his chest.

"It didn't need to come to this, Angel," she choked out. "I didn't want to threaten you, but you wouldn't _listen_, would you? Predictable. I would have outright left if I didn't think you would just come after me."

"Is this about me leaving the others?" he demanded. "Darla gave me a choice and I chose you. I thought that was what you wanted, for us to be together."

"_No!_ You have to stay with Darla—that's how it goes—otherwise—" A sob broke through. "You're making it too hard. Don't do this."

"Making what hard? Killing me? You've got an easy target," he spat.

She threw the stake carelessly aside and stood, releasing her hold on him. He stayed where he was. "Leaving," she corrected.

Rage swelled in his chest. "Tired of me already? I thought we'd go at least a century, or even a _decade_, but it looks like I had you all wrong, didn't I? Is that what I get for trusting a—"

"I'm going to die."

He got to his feet, rolling his eyes, and said, "You're already dead."

She ignored him. "The Powers That Be have sent word, Angel. They're giving me back my mortality. I will never get a chance like this again." Though her chin quivered, she was defiant, a light of resolve burning beneath the surface.

Her words were abhorrent. "Why would you want it? What could be worth one lifetime of—of disease and weakness? What is so important to you, girl, that you would give up _eternity_ for it?" he growled.

The unspoken question hung in the air: What could make her give up an eternity with _him?_

"You don't understand," she ground out. "They offered me life. Real _life_, with sunlight, a-and—food, and creation instead of this constant and mindless destruction! How could you live like this and tell me you're _happy?_ I used to have a purpose, Angel. I _mattered_."

"You were a nobleman's daughter. How could you have—"

"Ask me what my full name is," she said.

The non sequitur took him by surprise. He furrowed his brow. "What?"

Tears continued running down her dirtied cheeks. "I never gave it, and you never asked. Ask me now."

"What is it?" he snapped, tired already of her games.

"Elizabeth Summers. Ask me why I carry a stake."

That was her weapon of choice. In days past Angelus had marked his victims with a cross-shaped scar, a sign he had retired and given to Penn. Some vampires left signatures, and hers was the ironic choice of a wooden stake stabbed through the heart, just as Spike impaled his prey on railroad spikes. He found her choice endearing and never questioned it before, assuming she simply had a morbid sense of humor. At the present moment, he still didn't care to ponder on it.

"Just tell me wh—"

"It carried over from my human days," she interrupted, pacing in front of him. "Before I was this useless shell of a corpse, I ended the filthy unlives of countless hundreds of our kind, all before I turned eighteen. That was my job. My _calling_. It was what I was made to do."

No.

His mouth went dry. "You were—?" He couldn't say it. The word felt like betrayal—not because it was so horrible in itself, but because she had concealed it from him. He recalled her words from early on about how she preferred secrets to deceit, and suddenly it added up.

"I was the Slayer," she confirmed, nodding. "On my eighteenth birthday I was subjected to a test known as the Tento di Cruciamentum. My old Watcher told me all about it before I snapped his neck," she explained. "They take the Slayer and poison her with chemicals, weaken her. Then they lock her in with the most brutish vampire they can find, and if she comes out alive she passes the test." A pause. "I didn't pass. He sired me, thinking it would be just the quaintest thing to turn a Slayer. When I woke up I tore out his insides before tearing off his head." She stared at her hands as though her sire's head still rested between them. "I should have been grateful that he didn't kill me, but I learned over time that this—this existence he left me with, it's shallow and empty, a-and before this happened to me I was someone whose very name instilled terror in the hearts of the deceased."

"And now you miss it," he accused. "Think you're above us. You thrived in your righteous purpose, didn't you, Elizabeth? You want to go back to it, back to preying on your old brethren." A hiss escaped him. "I always thought you were too human. You even put William the Bloody to shame."

The tears had stopped, but her eyes were swimming with misery. She licked her lips once, twice. "You always call me Buffy," she whispered brokenly.

He saw it then. The depth of her sadness was profound, so immense it was practically tangible. And the amazing thing was that it had always been there but had previously escaped his notice. Where he had seen glee and merriment, there had been a swift undercurrent of torment. Her laughter was all she gave him because her melancholy would otherwise swallow her whole. She didn't look like a sweet girl anymore, for she had the agony of an aged woman written across her every feature. On the inside she was fifty-six; on the outside, not a day past eighteen. The disparity between the two looked ready to rip her in half and turn her inside-out.

"So that's it," he said. "You're going to leave and become human again, and just hope I still _care_ about you enough to leave you alone." He smirked. "Surely you aren't that foolish."

"No, I'm going to leave and cease to exist," she said. "They will destroy me, and I'll be born again, somewhere and sometime else. All they need is payment."

"Then I'll wait for you to be reborn. I've got plenty of time."

She sighed. "You still don't get it. I'm going to be _erased_, Angelus. You won't have a single recollection that I was here to begin with. And if you don't go back to Darla before it's too late, it will all be for nothing."

The last part sent a chill down his already cold spine. "Why?" She said nothing. "What's the payment?"

"Your soul," she replied.

He laughed in genuine amusement. "I don't _have_ a soul, lover. Good luck explaining that to your—"

"They're giving your soul back to you." Her gaze was pitying. "Forcing something so radiant as a human soul into such a dark and decaying place will be the most torturous pain you've ever felt. It will feel like the worst kind of hellfire and make you want to die all over again, and then, if you're extraordinarily lucky, you will spend the rest of your unending life plagued with guilt over every wretched deed you have ever committed. If fate really shines on you, maybe we'll meet again and I'll put you out of your misery."

He sized her up. "You're lying."

She countered, "I never lie."

He mulled it over for a few long moments before saying, "I'm going to forget all of this, all the time we've spent together, and you'll be reborn in the future with no knowledge of me at all while I experience the agony of hell in my every waking moment."

"Yes. That was what they decided."

"Selfish cunt."

That got a smile out of her. "Yes," she said again. "I told you from the beginning what my intentions were."

"You've known the whole time?" She nodded. "And still you wasted two years of both our lives?"

"If you hadn't tried to stray from Darla, throwing off the natural course of things, it could have been as many as seventeen, eighteen," she said. "And we would have been happy together, my Angel, until the very last second."

He couldn't argue with that. Every moment with her had been worth a lifetime with anyone else.

She planted a loving kiss on his mouth for the last time before she left, and though killing her now could have saved him a world of trouble, he let her go.

For a while he stood and thought about her words. Eighteen years, she had said. In mere hours he wouldn't even remember how long his freedom would last, and he knew, without doubt, that there would be a hole in his chest he wouldn't be able to explain. He knew this because it had been there before he met her, and for two short years it had been filled.

"_I'll never forget… I'll never forget…_"

But she would. This whole day would fade from her mind like a dream that never quite rose to memory in the morning. Everything would return to its natural state, and he would never be human and they would never be together, no matter how wonderful either of those things sounded.

In the seconds before time rewound and his world fell away again, he breathed in deeply. It had been dry out, yet she smelled like rain. Her hold on him was as unrelenting as ever.

Then he watched her walk away, and it was the worst kind of déjà vu.

He didn't sleep for a long while afterward, trying to keep the memory of the day fresh. It seemed lecherous and superficial to say the best day of his long life consisted of staying in the bedroom with the woman he loved, but that was how they had always shown affection, through touch and gesture and sensation. And it had felt so natural to lie with her and feel her bare skin warming him.

The Buffy he wanted to remember was the one who licked ice cream off his chest with a devilish grin, who liked to sprawl out on his bed with one leg dangling off the side; not the one who shot him a look of resignation before walking out the door. So that was how she would remain in his memory, happy and full of love, forever eighteen.

She should have just killed him ages ago.


End file.
